


like real people do

by beepbeep (aceface)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Everybody Lives, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Stanley Uris Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23876278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceface/pseuds/beepbeep
Summary: Stan picks up on the second ring.“Stan,” Richie says urgently. “You have to help me. Eddie’s about to give me a BJ because I jerked him off in the Derry Townhouse and he thinks he owes me.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 17
Kudos: 349





	like real people do

**Author's Note:**

> I stole this idea (the handjobs/owing thing) from beethechange and her fic ships that pass in the night, which you should read.
> 
> shout out to my friend dan for answering my questions about how visible erections are depending on what you're wearing.

“This is a disaster,” Richie says. His therapist blinks at him, pen hovering over the notepad. She’s been stunned into inaction. “ _I’m_ a disaster, fuck, Jesus Christ.”

The therapist - Richie should really learn her name, he’s _such_ a douchebag. The reason why he keeps thinking of her as ‘the therapist’ he _knows_ is because he’s already mentally writing her into one of his shitty stand-ups. He should probably tell her that, as well, but God, is it too much to ask for him to have one person who doesn’t think he’s a total fucking asshole?

Wanting the therapist not to think he’s an asshole, Richie figures, is probably counterintuitive to the entire idea of therapy.

The therapist clears her throat, carefully setting the notepad and pen to one side. She steeples her fingers together, then leans her chin forwards, peering at him over the top of her glasses.

“Richie,” she says gently. “You haven’t actually told me what happened yet.”

So he didn’t mention Eddie’s death in detail, although he came up with something close. Obviously. He’s crazy, but he’s not like, _crazy_ -crazy. There’s enough repressed homosexuality due to hate crimes in Derry to be getting on with without adding childhood friends coming back from the dead and the giant fucking murder clown hovering about. You win some, you lose some, get it? And Richie’s won enough to not worry too much about the rest of that trauma. He can have little a therapy, as a treat.

“Right,” Richie says.

So it was the first night that Eddie’d been back. All of them had been hanging out in their room of the Townhouse - except for Stan, Stan had come back too, but obviously in fucking wherever Stan lived now, and Richie didn’t envy him having to explain _that_ one to his wife - and then gradually, one by one (or two by two, really) they’d peeled off: Ben and Beverly, Bill and Mike (“Since when is _that_ ,” Eddie had said, like he’d missed something, and Richie had just spread his hands out and said, “Fuck if I know, dude.”)

So then it had just been the two of them. They’d laid down on the bed together, Richie feeling gangly and giant next to Eddie like usual. It wasn’t just that Eddie was short (“ _Average height_ ,” he’d said, teeth gritted, “Jesus fuck, Richie, give a dead guy a break”) but that everything about him was neat and compact. The first thing he’d done when he got back was disappear and come back, skin red and steaming from a shower, in a neatly pressed shirt, hair combed back again. (Although he was wearing pajama pants; thin and worn and soft looking, and Richie clenched his fists against the urge to reach out and touch them.)

Next to that, Richie felt a mess: legs too long, hair too messy, glasses too smudged. Eddie didn’t wear glasses, but if he did, Richie was willing to bet they’d always be clean. Eddie’d probably have them too scared to be otherwise, like that guy in that book who kept his plants nice by threatening them. Richie had thought something about that had seemed familiar when he had read it, and now that his memories were back, he could pretty much figure out why.

Eddie had fallen asleep in the middle of a sentence, which was so fucking cute that it made Richie’s heart hurt to think about even now, like someone just reached into his chest and squeezed it. He’d been ranting about the water pressure in the shower or something, and then he’d been cut off by a yawn, and when Richie looked over, he could see Eddie’s dark eyelashes against the pale of his cheeks, fluttering slightly.

It had hurt even then, a sudden rush of affection. It was mostly that Eddie felt safe enough with him to sleep, a kind of pride in that, and just a fierce love. Eddie looked tense and drawn most of the time, especially since they’d come back to Derry and even moreso since his death; but in sleep, the tight lines around his mouth relaxed and his lips were even slightly parted.

Richie pulled a blanket over them both and rolled over to go to sleep without even getting changed. He hadn’t come out to the Losers yet, not officially, although he felt like the others probably knew after the scene in the quarry - which felt very embarrassing now, in retrospect, with Eddie being alive and mostly well.

(“This seems fine so far,” the therapist said, “and very natural, given his recovery from what you believed to be a fatal accident-” “Yeah, I know,” Richie interrupted, “but it’s what happens _next_.”)

It was the middle of the night when he heard Eddie’s breathing change. He hadn’t even known that he was listening out for Eddie’s breathing until he woke, suddenly, staring at the ceiling and feeling like he was about to hyperventilate. Something was wrong with Eddie, but Eddie was still breathing and slowly. Richie realised that Eddie was laying awake the same way he was: rigid, flat on his back, arms by his side.

“Hey,” Richie said (to the ceiling, because looking at Eddie was difficult at the best of times, and looking at Eddie at night, when they were in bed together, was too much. Richie could admit that, if only to himself). “You okay there?”

Eddie was silent for long enough that Richie did look at him, rolling over on his side to face him. There was enough light leaking into the room from the hall that he could see Eddie’s face illuminated in profile: the brow, the tilt of his nose, and his mouth, lips pressed together. All of the softness that sleep had brought to him had now fled.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, finally. “Or I will be. Did I wake you up?”

“Uh, sort of,” Richie said. _I heard your breathing change and freaked out_ was probably too much. “But it’s fine, I don’t sleep much now anyway.”

“Me either,” Eddie said. He was still staring at the ceiling and Richie realised, with a sick jolt of his stomach, that Eddie wasn’t looking at the ceiling so much as he was _avoiding Richie’s eyes_. Shit, maybe he knew that Richie was gay. Maybe he knew, and he was uncomfortable sharing the bed; Eddie hadn’t meant to fall asleep here, and maybe now he wanted to leave and didn’t know how to bring it up.

“Um,” Richie said. He licked his lips, because they were dry, and then worried it made him look predatory. “You can go to your own room, if you want. If maybe - if you can’t sleep well sharing a bed with someone, I mean.”

“Uh,” Eddie said, and it sounded a little hoarse. “It’s not - exactly that.”

The blanket was thin, because the air-con wouldn’t stay on overnight and none of them had been able to figure out how to fix it. Eddie’s pants were also thin, and Richie couldn’t help but notice - well, Eddie didn’t exactly seem to _mind_ sharing the bed.

 _He doesn’t know you’re gay_ , Richie’s mind helpfully reminded him. _Also, stop staring, you’re being fucking creepy._

“I should get up,” Eddie said, like he was worried _Richie_ was uncomfortable.

And this is the bit where everything got really messed up because Richie, God help him, licked his lips again and said, “Um, or I could help you out?”

(“I’m a predator,” Richie says, to the therapist, who, to her credit, just shakes her head a little and says, “And this is something that happened recently? Not, maybe, when you were teenagers?”)

Eddie looked at him and blinked, like he was really thinking about it, which was already more than Richie had expected. Then he said, “Um, I guess, only if - if you want.”

It wasn’t the declaration of true love that Richie had been dreaming about, but it wasn’t a ‘no’ either. There was probably a lot to unpack here, in terms of consent or whatever and Richie really hoped it wasn’t his Me Too moment, but he knew Eddie well enough - or thought he did - to know that Eddie had no problem saying no or punching someone in the face if he wanted to.

“If _you’re_ sure,” Richie said, and then, when Eddie didn’t say anything, he reached across to touch him through his pants. They were the kind that had fleece on, once; most of the fleece had been worn off, and so the pants now felt paper thin. Richie could feel Eddie’s dick even through the pants and his boxers, and it was enough to make him half hard himself.

“Tell me to stop any time,” Richie said, “really,” and then when Eddie didn’t say anything else, he slipped his hand inside the pants and inside Eddie’s boxers and curled it around the length of him.

Eddie made a cut-off choked noise - he was warm and smooth and already hard - of course he was, Richie remembered, because he’d woken up like that, that was the only reason they were in this situation so it was stupid of Richie to think that it might be because of him.

He tightened his grip - there was already pre-come gathering at the head, which was a relief, because it wasn’t like Richie kept lube in the bedside table at the Derry Townhouse. Eddie made another noise.

“Are you okay?” Richie said, suddenly worried - but Eddie grabbed Richie’s wrist with his hand and said, “Yeah, yes, Rich, it’s good, please,” and that was all it took for Richie to get a full fucking hard-on. He swallowed, and allowed himself a moment to try and commit this to memory, because it might well be the only time it ever happened.

Then he started jerking Eddie off - _Eddie Kaspbrak_ , his mind said wonderingly, _letting you do this!_ \- slowly at first, the way he himself liked it. It was an awkward angle; Eddie lying on his back, his head twisted to face Richie, and Richie on his side, one arm trapped under his own body and the other touching Eddie, and this way he could see Eddie’s face while he did it. Not clearly, because there wasn’t enough light for that - but he could see the shine of Eddie’s eyes, and the way that he was biting his lip, and if Richie wasn’t careful he’d come in his own pants without anybody ever even touching him.

“Jesus,” he said, because he couldn’t help it. It should have been illegal to look the way Eddie did - Richie felt like he was stealing something from the world by being the person who got to see this. He started going a little faster then, gripping Eddie a little tighter, and Eddie’s mouth parted.

He didn’t want to speed up because he wanted it to last forever, honestly - although he’d probably get, what’s it called, carpal tunnel syndrome or something if it did - but he also wanted Eddie to have a good time, he guessed. If he did a good job, maybe Eddie would be super into it and ask for a repeat performance.

It didn’t take long for Eddie to come, with a little gasping noise that went straight to Richie’s dick - Richie figured he must’ve been pretty riled up before they started - and when he did, embarrassingly, Richie only got one hand on his own dick before he went off. He came hard - harder than he ever had from a hand job before, that’s for sure - and he wiped his hand on the inside of his boxers figuring he’d deal with the mess in the morning.

Eddie, on the other hand, swung his legs out of bed and headed over to the bathroom almost immediately, which wasn’t a surprise. What was a surprise was when he stopped, halfway there, and turned around.

“Sorry,” he said, “I just want to - semen on skin can cause an STI, or an allergic reaction, and I can’t just sit in it-”

“Hey,” Richie said. “It’s okay, man. Do what you gotta do.”

Eddie opened his mouth and closed it again, like he was going to say something else but had changed his mind, and then he went into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Richie rolled onto his side, his jeans feeling bulky and sticky, and closed his eyes.

He was asleep before Eddie came back.

-

Richie leaves the therapist’s office - he’ll learn her name one day, honestly, he will - feeling not actually all that much better about things. It’s one thing for the therapist to roll her eyes and say it’s not a big deal - not that she actually did that, but reading between the lines, that’s basically what happened.

But she doesn’t know everything, because she can’t. Eddie just came back to life after being dead and he’s newly divorced and possibly even _straight_ , probably, even, Richie can’t really know that either way - and they haven’t really spoken since.

Well, sure, they’ve _spoken_. They’ve even spoken about the thing. In the morning, Eddie had been sat upright by the time Richie woke up.

“You’ve got drool on your mouth,” Eddie said, and then flushed. It wasn’t like it was _his_ drool, they hadn’t even kissed. Maybe Eddie was just totally grossed out by the whole thing, in the harsh light of day, Richie figured. Either way, he wiped his mouth.

“So,” Eddie said. He was picking at the blankets, his hands almost knotted into them. “I just wanted to say - thanks. For last night.”

“Thanks,” Richie repeated. “Uh, you’re welcome?” He could feel his mouth starting to overtake his brain and tried to steel himself; this was when he said things that were stupider than usual, and he knew it was coming. There was no point trying to stop it, because you couldn’t - all he could do was make his peace with it.

“Well, I just,” Eddie said. His flush deepened, and Richie caught himself wondering how far down it went. “It really - made me feel alive,” he said, all in a rush. “Coming back from the dead hasn’t been easy. I mean, that’s probably an understatement. Everything’s been weird since Mike called us, really. Before that, even, since we left. Trying to have a sex life or a sexuality without your memories - anyway,” Eddie said, cutting himself off. Richie tried not to look like he was desperate to hear the end of that sentence.

“Sure,” he said instead. “You were fucking a clone of your mom, and I was fucking your mom. It happens.”

Eddie rolled his eyes at Richie, who tried not to be deeply thankful at some semblance of normality. It wasn’t that he thought ‘your mom’ jokes were funny, because he didn’t. It was more that when he was faced with Eddie, everything remotely funny or intelligent left his head and ‘your mom’ jokes were really all that he was left with.

“Beep beep, Richie,” he said. “I’m trying to be sincere. You deserve an explanation.”

“Oh my God,” Richie says, and here it went. “You sound like you’ve just compromised my virginity in like, the 1950s. Oh, Edward,” he said, putting on a fake Southern belle voice. “I do declare that you’ve ruined my honor. Why, if it wasn’t for the fabulous dowry my father has, I would be ruined for future prospects.”

“Please, not the Voices,” Eddie said, but Richie could see a smile starting to tug at the corners of his mouth. “I mean it, asshole. I know it sounds dumb, but you really - it made me feel, uh. Alive. There’s a difference between feeling not-dead and feeling alive, and just. I don’t know, I just really needed that.” He paused, blinking up to meet Richie’s eyes from under his eyelashes, as though it wasn’t devastating to witness.

“No problem,” Richie said, and was even, horror of horrors, about to say _anytime_ before Eddie said, “You’re just a really good friend, man, you know that? And sorry if I’ve made it weird.”

“If you’ve made it weird!” Richie said hysterically, before he could help himself. Eddie looked at him funny, like, _yeah, that’s what I said_ , like _that_ was the weird thing about all this, like it wasn’t the way Richie’s brain was torn between replaying _you made me feel alive_ and _you’re just a really good friend_ on an endless loop, layering one over the other as if it was trying to do its goddamn best to make sure Richie couldn’t jerk off to the former without thinking about the latter.

“Yeah,” Eddie said, slowly, like maybe Richie hadn’t heard him. “I get that it’s not a normal thing, I’m not totally socially stunted. But our group, we’ve never really been normal friends. So I hope we’re okay.”

Oh my God, Richie thought, aware that he was slowly spiralling into hysteria. Did that mean that Eddie would’ve asked _anyone_? He tried to think of Mike with his hand on Eddie’s dick and his brain fully shorted out, which was probably for the best.

They hadn’t really said anything about it after that, just got up and dressed and gone down to breakfast, talking to the others when they showed up about who was going where next, and putting each others’ numbers in their phone for a group chat. Richie spent the whole time on autopilot, fully aware that his hand had been on Eddie’s dick only a few hours ago, this hand, the one that was currently touching a fork, and now some fruit, and Jesus, had he washed his hands since then?

But now he’s outside his therapist’s office, which probably _does_ count as making it weird, bringing it up in therapy, even if Eddie doesn’t know about it. And of course, the way Richie’s life works means that Eddie chooses this exact moment, the one where Richie’s just out of therapy and contemplating all the ways he manages to make his life weirder and more fucked up, to text him.

 _Hey_ , Eddie has written. Richie always kinda thought Eddie’d be the type of guy to use capital letters and punctuation and stuff in his texts, and he starts off doing that, but then he gets frustrated with either his phone or whatever he’s bitching about and it all goes to hell. It’s pretty cute. Sometimes Richie tries to be the thing that Eddie’s frustrated about, to see how fast he can get him to ditch the capital letters.

Richie ducks into a doorway to write back, _hey_. He should really head home but he’s in no rush - he always makes sure he has literally nothing planned for after therapy, in case it turns out to devastate him - and waiting for Eddie to reply seems like the most important thing right now. 

Eddie is typing, apparently. Eddie is taking his fucking time.

Eventually the dots vanish and the little bubble pops up. _Can I call you?_

“Didn’t know you had to ask,” Richie says to his phone, just to say it. Instead, he types back - Richie fucking hates typing, will use voice notes whenever possible - _sure, half hour good? gotta get home first_.

It’s stupid, he regrets it as soon as he sends it, because now he’s going to be thinking of nothing for the next thirty minutes except what Eddie could want to talk to him about, and whether it’s related to the hand job. It’s been a while since then - they’ve all been gone from Derry for about three weeks, and Eddie hasn’t mentioned it since. Still. Richie just has a _feeling_.

Nerves are building in his stomach even as he orders a Lyft, shifting from foot to foot on the sidewalk while he waits. Maybe Eddie’s found out that Richie’s secretly in love with him, and there’s some kind of consent issue he’s mad about. There probably should be. Richie probably shouldn’t have done it, but the opportunity presented itself and Richie’s not a fucking saint, okay? There was no way he was going to pass up his one chance in life to get his hand on Eddie Kaspbrak’s dick.

Jesus, he shouldn’t be thinking about this in public or he’ll get hard again, and _that’ll_ be fucking embarrassing. That’s just what he needs; some teen to make a fucking TikTok about failed douchebag comedian Richie Tozier getting his rocks off in public.

Luckily, the Lyft pulls up pretty fast, so Richie gets to have a neurotic breakdown about the incoming phone call in the back of someone’s car instead of on the side of the road, which is an improvement, if only marginally.

Traffic is better than he figured it’d be, so he makes it all the way into his front room and gets to sink down on the stupidly giant couch before Eddie calls. (Seriously, it’s fucking ridiculous, but they gave him it for free if he made some tweets about it and Richie is nothing if not a sucker for some free shit.)

“Hi,” Richie says, when he picks up. “What’s up? Did you analyse some risks I’m taking?”

“What? No. Shut up,” Eddie says automatically. “Can you really not answer the phone like a normal person?”

“Oh shit, sorry, let me try again,” Richie says, and clears his throat dramatically. “Hello, Richie Tozier speaking. How may I direct your call?”

“Whatever,” Eddie says. “I don’t know why I tried. You’ve made me lose my train of thought now.”

“Uh, sorry?” Richie says. “Do you want to hang up and try again?”

“No, you’ll just derail that as well,” Eddie says. “How’ve you been, anyway? Back to normal?”

“I don’t know what normal is now,” Richie says. “Do any of us? Even if we hadn’t fought psycho alien Ronald McDonald, just the memory thing is enough to fuck me up, honestly.”

“Try doing all that and getting a divorce,” Eddie says. “I swear the legal system exists just to give me a fucking migraine. All lawyers are assholes, no exceptions. They’re ready to bleed me fucking dry over this, and the worst of it is, I don’t even care as long as it gets me away from her.”

“Is she that bad?” Richie asks, forgetting for a minute not to care.

Eddie’s silent, just breathing down the phone - in and out, in and out, and Richie finds himself timing his own breaths to Eddie’s.

“She’s not _bad_ ,” Eddie says, eventually. “I think we’re bad for each other, or we were. We probably still would be. I just feel like now I’ve made the decision, I want it to be done, you know?”

“You never had any patience,” Richie agrees cheerfully. “Always wanted things right away. Good things come to those who wait, Eds.”

“I just don’t see the point in making a decision and doing nothing about it,” Eddie says. “It’s not so bad, anyway. Bev’s sort of going through a similar thing, so we’re divorce buddies.”

Richie experiences a brief flash of jealousy, the kind that’s already gone once he realises what it was. He’s not going to be jealous of _Beverly_ , funny, sharp Beverly, who knows almost everything of Richie and loves him for it, not despite it.

“Maybe I should hang up and try again,” Eddie says and then, decisively, “No, that’s stupid. Okay, here’s the thing - I owe you.”

“Wow, never thought I’d hear the day that Eddie K owes me,” Richie says. “How much? Like, ten dollars? Did I buy you a shot at the Jade Orient because I felt like I did, but it was rude to mention it after the, you know, arcane horrors that popped out of the fortune cookies.”

“No, not that,” Eddie says. “We were all buying rounds for the table, and I think Bill got the check, anyway. I’m not paying him back, he owes _me_ that after I read his book with the shitty ending.”

“Which one?” Richie says and Eddie snorts a laugh out, like he didn’t mean to. Richie feels himself grow warm and hates himself for it. 

“No, I owe you for - you know,” Eddie says.

“Eds, buddy,” Richie says, because he knows what Eddie’s getting at - knew it before Eddie said anything, if he’s being honest. “If you can’t say it, you shouldn’t be doing it. Alright, man? I’ll give you a pass on this one.”

“For the _hand job_ ,” Eddie says loudly. “Did you get that? I’m not scared to say it, asshole, I’m just at work.”

“Oh my God, Mr Kaspbrak,” Richie says. “Did you just say _hand job_? Hello, can I speak to HR?”

“Shut up,” Eddie says, but he’s grumbling in the way where Richie knows he’s secretly amused.

“If you didn’t want to talk about this shit at work, why’d you call me when you’re at work?” Richie says, which is a more than valid question, in his opinion.

“Because,” Eddie says. “It was on my mind, okay?”

“Because you’re an impatient person,” Richie says. “Just like we talked about.”

“Because I made the decision to talk to you about this and I didn’t see the point in sitting and thinking about it when I could just do it,” Eddie says. Honestly, Richie’s a little jealous - for real, this time. He’s been trying to decide whether or not to come out publicly for - well, a few weeks now, at least, since everything happened - and even though he thinks he’s probably going to, it doesn’t mean that he’s just going to do it. Sitting and thinking about it is terrifying enough, the last thing he wants to do is make it real.

“Great,” Richie says. “Well, I’m going to say no to the debt, thanks. I’ll clear it, in fact. Ding! Hear that? Your debt’s now cleared, no one owes anyone anything.”

“No, I still owe you,” Eddie says stubbornly. “That’s what I was calling to tell you; I’m coming to visit.”

“Uhhhh,” Richie says, trying to hide the fact that his brain’s legitimately just 404’d. “What?”

“I’m coming to visit you,” Eddie says. Richie can hear the implied _keep up_ , which is unfair - Eddie is definitely the crazy one here. “Next week. Do you have any plans?”

“Uhhh,” Richie says again. “You… don’t have to do that. Like, you don’t owe me anything, dude. I was just helping you out, no strings attached. I don’t want to be some gross dude.”

“You’re not gross,” Eddie says, like _that’s_ the part of what Richie said that he’s bothered about. “And I don’t feel obligated. Well, I guess I do, in a way, but not because you think that.”

“This is really sexy, thanks,” Richie says, then an idea strikes him. “Wait, if you’re so bothered, let’s just do phone sex. Save yourself the weird cross-country booty call, just say some stuff to me and I’ll stick my hand down my pants.”

Eddie makes a humming noise that means he’s thinking about it, and there’s a moment when Richie thinks he’s gotten away with it before Eddie says, “No, I don’t think so. I want to come visit anyway, don’t you want me to come?”

God. “Yes, I want you to come,” Richie says. “But that doesn’t mean you need to want _me_ to cum, you get it?”

“I get it,” Eddie says dismissively. “Look, Bill and Mike are off on their weird occult tour of South America and Ben and Bev are on a beach somewhere, so I don’t see why we shouldn’t hang out too.”

“I guess it’s the, uh, crossover of ‘let’s hang out’ and ‘I owe you a hand job’ that’s really confusing me,” Richie says slowly, although really, it’s sort of all of it. “You don’t have to do sex stuff just to hang out with me. Like, just hanging out is fine. We can watch things that aren’t about clowns and get wasted.”

“You’re painting such a tempting picture,” Eddie says dryly. “Look, I have to go now, okay? If you don’t text me that you’re busy next week in the next hour I’m just going to go ahead and book these flights. I’ll text you my flight plans. Okay?”

“Okay,” Richie says, almost as a reflex, and then Eddie hangs up and Richie’s left with his phone pressed to his ear, wondering what the fuck just happened.

-

It doesn’t get any less weird from there. At a certain point, Richie decides he just has to give up trying to figure it out and go with it - kind of like when you find out a murder clown from your childhood has summoned you back to your hometown and you gotta try and kill it a second time. Logic has no place in some situations.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway, while he sits in his car and taps his fingers against the wheel, waiting for Eddie to come out of the airport. It’s weird how nervous he is - it’s just _Eddie_ , who wore a fanny pack and tiny shorts when they were kids, like, literally the last person he should be intimidated by - and yet, on the other hand, it’s _Eddie_ , who grew up to be one of the hottest people Richie’s ever seen in real life and had his dick in Richie’s hand the last time he saw him.

Richie is never going to get over that. His life has peaked - which, to be fair, has happened at forty and so he’s had a good run. It’s not like he peaked early. He _did_ peak with a hand job, though, and he’s reminded of his therapist (Jane?) asking him if Richie’s sure this wasn’t something that happened when they were teenagers.

Maybe it did, but Richie’s pretty sure that this is the kind of thing he’d remember, even now.

Someone taps on his window, and Richie tries to jump less obviously. He rolls his window down to see Eddie, peering in.

“Dude, just unlock the door,” he says. “It’s me.”

“Oh,” Richie says. “Well, you gotta be careful, you know, in this day and age,” and he gets out of the car even as Eddie’s rolling his eyes at him. Then he almost trips up over one of Eddie’s bags. “How much luggage did you need? Are you moving in?”

“Shut up,” Eddie says, but there’s none of the usual bite to it. “Are you going to give me a hand with these or not?”

Richie bows low. “I’m at your disposal, Eduardo,” he says, before slinging one of Eddie’s bags over his shoulder and picking up another in each hand. He realises too late that this means he doesn’t have a hand free to open the trunk, so he has to put one back down before he can dig the keys out, fumbling them a little bit.

Eddie’s watching him, one eyebrow raised, and Richie makes a face at him.

“I’m not actually your gopher.”

“You’re not a gopher at all,” Eddie says, like that makes sense, and comes over to casually pluck the keys out of Richie’s hand and unlock the trunk. “By the way, I’ve been thinking and I’m going to blow you instead. Is that alright?”

“Uhhh,” Richie says. “What?”

Eddie finishes loading his bags into the trunk and slams the trunk, locking it. He tosses the keys up and catches them in one hand, and shrugs a shoulder at Richie.

“Should I drive?”

-

Richie starts babbling the minute they get inside his apartment. He knows he is, can _hear_ he is, and yet can’t seem to do anything about it. It’s the reciprocal hand job - it’s floating over him, like a weird ghost or like a burned in impression like he sometimes gets on his TV screen after he’s been playing videogames. The elephant in the room.

The _blow job_ in the room. Richie tries not to cackle. 

He dumps Eddie’s bags in the guest room then wipes his hands on his jeans, like there’s dust on them or something, but really just because he’s busted out in the nervous sweats. Is he about to throw up? Oh God, please don’t let him throw up, now would be bad enough, but what if Richie’s in the middle of the blow job and he throws up over Eddie? 

Not only would that be gross because, you know, _vomit_ , but like, isn’t that basically what happened to Eddie with the leper? Recreating Eddie’s clown murder childhood trauma during his second vaguely gay experience would, Richie is pretty sure, put an end to anything similar. Fuck, it’d probably be enough to turn _Richie_ straight. Puking and sex don’t mix. Richie may not be the most experienced guy, but he’s sure on that one.

“So, this is where you’ll sleep,” Richie says. “In the bed, I mean, not on the floor, ha ha. Although you can if you want, I’ve heard it’s pretty good for your back. But you’d have to let me know, I could make up a bed on the floor or something, if you wanted. I don’t mind, really. Whatever works for you.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, sounding unfairly calm. “Calm down.”

“Oh right, yeah,” Richie says, “because telling someone to calm down, that always works. You of all people should know that. Hey, remind me, next time you’re in the middle of a panic attack, I’ll just let you know to calm down, right? That’ll fix it.”

“Are you having a panic attack?” Eddie says. “Honestly, if you say yes, I could believe it.”

“Yes,” Richie says, then, “no. I’m not. I’m just stressed out, Jesus.”

Eddie stands with his hands on his hips and his brows drawn together, glaring at Richie like he’s trying to figure something out.

“If you didn’t want me to come, you should’ve just said so,” he says finally.

“It’s not that,” Richie says. “I’m happy you’re here. I mean it. It’s just-” He waves his arms around, “A lot! Right now!”

“A lot,” Eddie repeats. “What does that mean?”

“You _said_ ,” Richie says. He’s feeling a lot less brave now. “About the, you know. Blow job.”

“If you can’t say it, you shouldn’t be doing it,” Eddie says, meanly, and Richie rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, no shit! _You’re_ the one who wants to do it.”

“So you don’t want to?” Eddie says. Richie might be imagining the hurt in his eyes, but on the off chance it’s there, he can’t - he has to say something.

“It’s not that,” he says. “If this is what you want, to make us even or make it not weird, or make yourself feel better or alive or whatever you want, I’m in! I’m always in, Eds Spaghets. Whatever you want, okay? It’s just, like… _when_?”

“When?” Eddie says. “You want a schedule? A detailed timeline?”

“Oh, don’t pretend like you haven’t thought about this,” Richie says, “the most organised man I’ve ever met, you’re telling me you haven’t planned this out to the letter?”

“Well,” Eddie says, then seems to deflate. He walks over to the bed and sits down on it, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “Not really, actually. I just thought - when it seemed right. That’s when I’d do it.”

Richie sits down next to him, trying not to let the fact that they’re both currently on a bed get to him too much.

“It’s just weird, knowing it’s going to happen,” he says. “I don’t mind, I told you. Just - you gotta admit it’s a little strange, right?”

“I thought maybe, in the evening,” Eddie says. “Before bed? I don’t know! Myra and I never really - anyway, I’m not used to this.” 

“I’m not an expert myself,” Richie says. “I mean, I know I look like a free slut, drowning in pussy or whatever-”

“Oh, gross,” Eddie says. “Don’t be that guy with me. Beep fucking beep, Tozier.”

“Okay, but my point is,” Richie says, “neither of us are pros at scheduling sex acts, okay? I would just like to know what to expect.”

“Okay,” Eddie says, and thins out his mouth in a way that Richie recognises, and dreads in this situation - Eddie’s just made a decision about something. “Well, in that case, let’s just do it now.”

“Uhhm,” Richie says, and it comes out sounding strangled. He takes a deep breath, and tries again. “Now?”

“Why not?” Eddie says. He sounds fine - he sounds _casual_ , and not at all terrified, and it’s blowing Richie’s mind a little bit. “It’s like you said, I like to make a decision and do it.”

“Uh,” Richie says, and grabs his phone. “I have to make a phone call, be right back.”

-

Stan picks up on the second ring.

“Stan,” Richie says urgently. “You have to help me. Eddie’s about to give me a BJ because I jerked him off in the Derry Townhouse and he thinks he owes me.”

Stan sighs maybe the loudest, most put-upon sigh that Richie’s ever heard.

“Rich, I came back from the dead, like, a month ago,” he says. “Don’t you think I maybe have some more important problems?”

“What problems could you have? You’re married!” Richie says. “Unless you’re joining the divorce club.”

“No, but I might be if I keep talking to you about blow jobs instead of hanging out with my wife,” Stan says. “We’ve still got a lot to work on after the whole suicide/coming back from the dead thing.”

“Well, let me tell you, Staniel, from one friend to another, blow jobs just complicate everything,” Richie says. “You ever considered becoming a monk? Or whatever the Jewish equivalent is? We could become hermits in a synagogue, you up for that?”

“I’m not becoming a hermit with you,” Stan says. “Look, I really do have to go, but let me just tell you this: we’re friends, and I’d never in my life give you a hand job just because I owed you. I wouldn’t even let you get away with giving _me_ a midnight hand job. Okay? I’m pretty sure the same goes for everyone else. So maybe just think about that.”

Then he hangs up. Talk about fucking unhelpful. 

Richie thinks about calling one of the others, but he can’t imagine anyone’s going to be any better - they’ll either laugh at him (Mike, Bev) or try and talk about true love or some shit (Bill, Ben) so instead, he turns his phone off and figures he’ll just take his chances.

After all, Richie’s faced down a fucking killer clown. How scary can Eddie and a blow job be?

-

Eddie’s sitting on the edge of the bed and looking determined when Richie comes out, which honestly almost makes him turn around and walk right back into the bathroom.

“Hey,” Eddie says. “Can you lay down? I’ve been thinking about it and I think it’ll be easier than if I kneel. Plus, my knees. Not what they used to be. Can you believe we’re old now?”

It’s as close to babbling as Richie’s ever heard from him since the reunion, and he thinks about what to say even as he heads over to the guest bed and stretches out on it, Eddie looking him over.

“You don’t have to do this,” Richie says. “Have you even done it before? Honestly, a hand’s fine. You could even do it over the jeans, I’m easy.”

“No, but how hard can it be?” Eddie says, which is both super hot and not what Richie wants to hear while Eddie’s kneeling over him, looking at his general crotch area contemplatively. “Had you ever given a hand job before?”

“Yeah, in college,” Richie says, before he can stop himself, and Eddie glances up at him.

“Huh.”

“Well, you know,” Richie says, feeling uncomfortable. “Experimental phase.” He doesn’t say that the result of the experiment is that it turned out he’s pretty fucking gay, but that’s mostly because Eddie starts trying to undo his belt. 

“Hey,” Richie says, and puts his hands over Eddie’s. “Check in time. Are you sure you want to do this? You really don’t have to, man, you really don’t owe me anything. Do you need a safe word? How about ‘pumpkin pie’?”

“Oh my God, maybe you should be giving the blowjob as it’s the only way you’ll ever shut up,” Eddie says and Richie feels himself going hot and cold immediately at how immediately turned on he is at the thought of Eddie shutting him up with his dick. Jesus Christ, who knew Eddie Kaspbrak had this in him?

“Okay,” Eddie says, and then he unzips Richie’s pants.

-

“Wow,” Richie says after, dazed. “Wow. Okay.”

“So I guess I did it right,” Eddie says, satisfied. Richie turns his head to look at him; he looks like a cat, pleased with himself.

“Did you actually swallow?” Richie says. “Is that sanitary?”

“It seemed neater than having it all round my mouth and who knows where,” Eddie says. “Besides, I Googled it and swallowing or spitting doesn’t change the risk of catching an STI either way. I read like an academic paper on it. Having it on your skin is probably much worse.”

Richie stares at him. “Who are you?” he says. “Have we met?”

“Ha ha,” Eddie says. His right hand is opening and closing involuntarily, like he wants to reach for a toothbrush. He probably does.

“No, but really,” Richie persists. “When did you get so confident about this stuff?”

“Well, dying and coming back to life will really change your perception on things,” Eddie says dryly. He props himself up on the bed, making sure he has enough pillows to support himself. “I don’t know, it’s weird. I was thinking about work, the day after this all started - the hand job, I mean - and how easy it is for me to make decisions there, because I trust myself. It seemed to me that I should just trust myself in my personal life as well.”

He shrugs a shoulder, not quite meeting Richie’s eyes.

“If I want to do things, I don’t see why I should stop myself. When I died, I thought about all these things I hadn’t done.”

“So I’m on your bucket list?” Richie says, half-teasing, half-hurt at the thought of - he doesn’t quite know what. Being another box to tick, maybe.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “No, you’re not getting it,” he says. “I spent my whole life being scared of AIDS, or grey water, or - everything. And when something did happen, like I broke my arm, it wasn’t even that bad. And even with all that, with being scared and avoiding the risks - I died anyway.”

He stops and swallows. Richie scoots up the bed a little, pulling himself up to sit behind Eddie. He’s very aware that he’s only just tucked himself back into his boxers and it’s probably not a great time for an emotional conversation, but they’re already in the middle of it so there’s not really much he can do.

“Hey,” he says, and taps Eddie’s chest, about where he thinks his heart is. “You’re alive.”

“I’m not going to get a tattoo or go sky-diving or anything fucking stupid like that,” Eddie says. “I’m not a complete idiot. But it’s something that me and Bev talk about a lot, about what our lives looked like and what we want them to look like. And if you want to change something, you’ve got to make that change.”

-

Richie thinks about it a lot, the next day. Eddie’s still in the apartment, he thinks; Richie has a meeting with his agent that he’s been putting off. It’s time to just do it, he thinks. If Eddie can go through everything he’s been through and still travel halfway across the country to give Richie a blow job to make up for some imagined debt, Richie can at least go and meet Steve.

Besides, something’s wrong if Eddie’s being braver than him. Richie doesn’t think of himself as a brave person - especially not the older he gets - but he, for one, never froze up in front of a spider with Stan’s face on it, and he was first in the sewers when all that shit went down.

He thinks about the Missing poster with his own face on it, and maybe that already came true, a little bit. Maybe Richie’s been missing from his own life the past few years.

“That’s all very philosophical,” Steve says, “but Tozier, you gotta tell me what you’re getting at, here.”

“Oh,” Richie says. “Well, I’m going to come out. Like, on Twitter, probably right after this meeting. I wrote the draft so all I have to do is hit send.”

It’s interesting, watching the blood drain from Steve’s face.

“Well,” Steve says, eventually. “You never told me, but I think I saw this coming. Okay. I’m guessing there’s no way I can talk you out of this? You gotta know the risks, Richie. This isn’t going to go well, with your act and everything.”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “The month long disappearance probably didn’t do so much for my career either.”

“No, it didn’t,” Steve says. “Well. Thanks for the notice, even if it wasn’t much.” He doesn’t sound like he means it. “Any other career-ending bombs you want to drop on me?”

“Now that you ask, yeah, actually,” Richie says. “I want to start writing my own material. I have been, I mean. These past few weeks. I know I’m not going to be where I was, but I thought - maybe some local stand-up nights, or something. I’m prepared to start over.”

“Fuck,” Steve says. He drops his head so that his forehead hits the table. “Fuck!”

“Hey, man, I know it’s not ideal,” Richie says desperately. “But I think it’s some pretty good stuff. Don’t drop me as a client, man, I swear I can get out of this. The homophobic stuff was dated anyway, you know it was, and I didn’t want my first Netflix special to be another white man bitching about cancel culture. That shit lasts forever on the internet.”

“I’m not going to drop you,” Steve says to the table, then he lifts his head up and eyeballs Richie. “Yet. I might do, if you fuck up this reinvention.”

They talk for a little while after that - Richie emails some of his material across, from the notes app on his phone, and Steve doesn’t entirely hate it which is the best that Richie thinks he could really ask for. Steve reads over the coming out tweet as well, makes a few tweaks and then goes to the bar and buys Richie a shot of tequila for him to have before he hits ‘send’.

It doesn’t go that badly, all things considered.

-

Eddie’s waiting for Richie when he lets himself into the apartment, clutching his phone and looking crazy-eyed. His hair’s sticking up where he’s been running his hands through it and Richie hovers by the door, holding his hands up in front of him like a guy about to say ‘don’t shoot!’.

“Oh my God,” Eddie says, waving the phone at him. Richie can just about make out his tweet on there. “Oh God, if I’d known you were gay, I wouldn’t have needed to do all this.”

“All… the blow jobs?” Richie says. “‘Cause I gotta tell you, those are pretty gay things to do, when you’re a dude. I just didn’t want to tell you at the time.”

“All the convincing!” Eddie says.

“Wait,” Richie says. “Convincing me of what?”

“To like guys,” Eddie says. “To like _me_. Having sex with me, whatever.”

“I do like having sex with you,” Richie says, confused. “I mean, we haven’t actually had sex yet, we’ve only got to like, third base, but I’m not against it as a concept.” Wait, third base probably isn’t blow jobs. Still, the point - in Richie’s opinion - remains.

“I thought you were straight!” Eddie says. “I guess I missed the grand coming out of Richie Tozier by being pretty fucking dead at the time.”

“Well, you didn’t miss it,” Richie says. “You’ve got it there, on Twitter.”

“That’s it?” Eddie says. His voice is getting higher and higher, and Richie’s a little bit worried that Eddie might explode, but he’s got a headache and his temples are throbbing so he’s also a little bit worried that his own head is going to explode. “You didn’t tell your friends first?”

“Well,” Richie says, a little uncomfortable. “You’ve all got Twitter. I’m a trending topic, so I figured it’s hard to miss.”

“Richie, you’re one of my best friends, but coming out on Twitter without telling, I don’t know, the guy who sucked you off yesterday is a dick move.”

“Okay,” Richie says. It’s starting to filter in through the adrenaline and high of coming out that Eddie has a point - that if any of the Losers had made a big announcement like that without telling him, he would be hurt, and questioning how much they valued his friendship, honestly, but if Eddie had done something like that… “Okay,” Richie says again. He can feel his eyes starting to well up, which sucks. “You’re right, I’m sorry, dude. I wasn’t thinking.”

“When do you ever?” Eddie says, but he seems slightly mollified by Richie’s apology. “It was a real douche move, Rich.”

“I know, I get that now,” Richie says. He sits down on the couch, pulling his legs up so he can hug his knees, like he used to when he was a kid. He misses the club-house. He misses the _hammock_ ; curling up in it and waiting, hoping, that Eddie was going to clamber in next to him.

Eddie sits down next to him, the couch dipping slightly so their shoulders bump together.

“It was very brave of you,” Eddie offers. For all that Eddie’s temper flares up suddenly, angry and white-hot, it always dies down as quickly - Eddie was always the first to move on from a fight, to immediately go back to normal like nothing ever happened. Considering that Richie was the kind of kid who pissed people off a lot, it was no wonder that he found Eddie’s quick forgiveness addicting, like he didn’t have to censor himself, because whatever he said, Eddie would be over it in a day at the most.

“I didn’t do it to be brave,” Richie said. “It was like you were saying. I’d made the decision and I just wanted to get it out there.”

Eddie’s quiet for a minute. Richie focuses on his own breathing, in and out, and not the way his heart rate speeds up just at the warmth of Eddie’s shoulder bleeding through his clothes.

“It was brave, though,” Eddie says. “I’m glad you did it, even if you didn’t do it in the way I wanted. I just - would have liked it if you’d told me.”

“Okay,” Richie says. He moves one sock-clad foot a little further, nudges his toes against Eddie’s foot. “Hey, Eddie Spaghetti. I’ve got something I want to tell you.”

Eddie huffs out a laugh, but he doesn’t move. “This is stupid and not what I meant.”

“I’m gay,” Richie says solemnly. “So all those times I said I fucked Mrs K, I really meant that I fucked your dad instead.”

“My dad’s dead, dude,” Eddie says. “He was even then.”

“Yeah, I had to dig him up first,” Richie says, and then squawks and twists away as Eddie starts elbowing him in the side. “Hey, cut it out! That hurts.”

“Well,” Eddie says loftily, once the slap fight has ended and he’s almost managed to shove Richie off the couch with his feet, “I’ve got something to tell you, too.”

“Okay,” Richie says. “Hit me with it, Eds.”

“I’m gay too,” Eddie says. “So. Now imagine if I hadn’t told you but I’d put that on Twitter.”

“You don’t even post on Twitter,” Richie says, and then, “Wait, really? Or are you just saying that to make a point?”

“I wanted to tell you the morning after but I pussied out,” Eddie says. “So clearly I’m not that brave. I just - you know, honestly, I feel like I should’ve known because you were really bad at talking about sex with women and like, obviously overcompensating, but I didn’t. And I didn’t want to tell you and have you feel sorry for me.”

“Feel _sorry_ for you?” Richie says. “What, why would I - is this to do with the homophobic shit in my act because I’m _sorry_ , Eds, I never meant any of it, obviously -”

“No, not that,” Eddie says. “Well, kind of, maybe, but not really. Just - I thought if I told you, you’d be able to tell that I, uh. Wanted you. Want you, I mean.”

“What?” Richie says and then, because he can’t think of anything else to say, “What?”

“I told Myra after I saw you at the Orient that I wanted a divorce,” Eddie says quickly, like he can’t stop himself now. It’s crazy - Richie can’t quite believe that these words are coming out of Eddie’s mouth - Eddie, with his dark eyes and scar on one cheek, looking like the only thing that Richie’s ever wanted in this world. “I didn’t know if I was gay, or if you were, but I knew it wasn’t fair to her, to feel like this.”

“Shit,” Richie says. “Fuck!”

“You seemed fine when I said we were friends,” Eddie says defensively. “So I thought maybe - and then when I came to visit you, I didn’t even know if you wanted me here.”

“Because you said you owed me!” Richie says, his voice rising. “If you’d just said ‘Hey, Richie, let’s bang’ then I’d have been like, ‘Sure, Eds, by the way, I’ve been in love with you since I was about twelve’!”

“You didn’t say that either!” Eddie snaps. “You had just as much opportunity as me, Jesus. I thought maybe if I blew you, if we started doing that, maybe you’d realised that you liked me. I don’t know, man, I’m not a fucking expert! I’ve been with one person for most of my life and that person was a woman, and I’m fucking gay!”

“I’ve never had sex at all!” Richie says. It drops like a stone into the sudden silence and he swallows hard, wondering if there’s any way to take it back. “I mean, haha. Kidding.”

“That wasn’t funny even by your standards,” Eddie says. “Wait, don’t tell me that was-”

“I’ve had _blow jobs_ ,” Richie says, because he’s not _that_ pathetic, thank you very much, Eddie Kaspbrak. “Just - I haven’t gone, like, all the way. Listen, when you’re a closet-case up until you’re forty, there’s not a lot of opportunity to get your dick wet.”

“That’s kind of nice, I guess,” Eddie says. “I mean, we’d probably have lost it to each other when we were kids, if we hadn’t been, you know, terrified of everything.”

“I was only terrified about being gay,” Richie corrects. “And you all hating me for it. I mean, the clown sucked, don’t get me wrong, but I feel like the real clown all along was repressed sexuality, am I right?”

“The clown literally _killed me_ ,” Eddie says, “so no. Jesus Christ, I can’t believe how much I love you, you fucking _idiot_.”

“Oh,” Richie says. There’s something fizzing in his chest, and it takes him a little while to realise that he’s happy. It’s been - a while, actually. “I love you too. For ages. Years. Actually. So this isn’t - just sex?”

“You’re a total fucking moron,” Eddie grouses, but he moves closer to Richie, close enough that Richie can slip an arm around him and pull him in. “It’s not just sex, Jesus. I’ve practically moved in with you. Which, by the way, reminds me - your apartment is super sad, dude. There’s nothing going on here.”

“I was never at home!” Richie protests. “I was never here, why would I do anything?”

“Nothing, except this giant-ass couch, which is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Eddie says. “Seriously, what was going through your mind when you picked that out?”

“It was free,” Richie says. “It’s not that bad! They let me pick the cover myself.”

“Oh, so you _chose_ this hideous purple velvet,” Eddie says. “Thanks, that makes me feel a lot better.”

“Are you really moving in?” Richie says and Eddie shrugs a shoulder.

“I can do,” he says. “I quit my job, actually. Not to move in with you, but just - I can do it anywhere, I don’t know. I needed a break. So I can - or if it’s too soon, I can find somewhere here, I’d just need you to let me crash - or I could get a hotel-”

“Don’t leave,” Richie says. He doesn’t mean to, but it’s out there. “Stay forever.”

Eddie looks at him, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. Richie doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s for Eddie to make fun of him, maybe, or brush it off.

Instead, Eddie reaches out, laces his fingers with Richie’s, reaches up to kiss him.

“Okay,” he says, when he pulls back. “I will.”

-

“So,” Richie says, to his therapist - it’s a phone appointment this time, because he just thought he should update her on everything. “He likes me back, and he’s moving in. I think it worked out well.”

“Okay, Richie,” the therapist says. “You don’t think that maybe this is moving a little fast?”

“It’s taken us twenty seven years and some to get to this point,” Richie says. 

If he thinks about it, they’re right on time.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested, Richie's giant couch is the 8 Seats + 10 Sides Oversized Modular Sectional Couch from Lovesac.


End file.
